


They wanna make me their king

by AChildOfTheEye



Series: The Witcher [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Jaskier has magic, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Other, again based off of headmates, but yeah, child abuse mentions, it got sucky at the end, minor physical violence, nothing major
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:15:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29287401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AChildOfTheEye/pseuds/AChildOfTheEye
Summary: This isn't fair. Going home was one thing Jaskier feared. He never wanted to go back. But now he was forced to.ORJaskier gets grabbed and Geralt stresses out
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier & Original Characters
Series: The Witcher [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2150850
Comments: 3
Kudos: 72





	They wanna make me their king

**Author's Note:**

> This sucks. That's all.

The silhouette of the castle and town cast a giant shadow onto the dirt road, the carriage being shielded from the setting sun by its cool blanket, silently and ever so slowly moving across the earth.

Jaskier despised it. Hated it. Loathed it with all his heart. Why? Because this was his kingdom. His castle, his town, his home. His place of birth. And he hated it all. There was no summary as to why. Well, there were a few, but his mother and father were big reasons.

He didn't want to think about it. Being squished between two burly, bulky men in armour that Geralt could swish through with a sword swing, their weapons lay half hazard across the carriage floor, bumping against their feet as the carriage rocked side to side.

It had been like this for hours. The silencing spell had worn off long ago, but there was no use in trying to scream for his Witcher now. They were too far. He must have lost his smell kilometres away. The bard could only hope he did search. Even for a minute. It had been broad daylight, after all.

The two men spoke in their native tongue, the words were fluent, yet heavy like river rocks. They flew in one ear and then out the next. He didn't even bother trying to understand the words. All he could focus on was his breathing, the way it smelled too much like home, and the way the panic, grief and anger gripped at him.

It was all hopeless. What good can he do, his dagger hidden in the pocket of his jacket, somewhere he can't get to as it was taken from him, his lute gripped in his dominant hand and nothing but the mere chance of being able to take care of one oaf? Nothing. That's what. 

It boiled under his skin, bubbling like a lethal potion to be given as a gift to a king and queen for their anniversary. Jaskier's leg jittered up and down, staring straight ahead at the beautifully crafted carriage walls. He hated this. It was as simple as that. Being away from his Witcher, being away from the adventure, the life he got so comfortable with.  
He had taken it for granted. All of it. He knew he was selfish. Julian Alfred Pankratz was a selfish bastard, who only ever spoke in white lies and silver-tongued truths. A conman, who lied in ever ballad, every song and melody he ever tuned and strummed for the average Joe. A beast who took what he wanted and never got what he deserved.

A fool. A fool for having fallen for someone so unavailable, yet so gentle. So kind and caring. Panic gripped at him once more. Would Geralt assume he parted ways early? No, no... He musn't have, it was the beginning of summer. They always travel together during the summer. Not that he often parted ways with the Witcher regardless, but whenever he did, it was in Winter.

Winter was a month of grief. Of fear, of being hunted, of being vulnerable. He couldn't afford to explain why he screamed and yelled, woke up in a cold sweat crying, having to curl up in a ball while hyperventilating just because some snow started falling. He couldn't bear the thought of telling it all to Geralt. Of what his family did to him. Of what happened that fateful winter. What drove him away from the wealth, the warmth and the comfort.

He didn't want to think about what would happen if Geralt knew. He knew he was horrible himself. A broken man, putting on a mask to hide. Filled with leaking water, slowly dripping small drops of the liquid onto the ground. Drip drop. He was unwanted. He was hated. Everyone loathed him, after all.

Why else would they boo? Why else would they turn to look at him with hate-filled eyes, glaring their souls worth at Jaskier? Why else would they chase them with sticks and stones, bruising him whenever they hit?

Why else would Geralt keep him around? If not for entertainment? For simple amusement whenever he got embarrassed, ashamed, boo-ed? Why else would he let him stick around?

Was he that worthless and pathetic? That even a Witcher--

The carriage bumped to a stop, throwing its riders forward slightly.  
"We're here." The gruff-voiced guard said, popping open the carriage door to climb out. Jaskier hadn't realized they had come into town. When did he start sweating bullets?

It took the other man left in the carriage to poke him to get out. No one helped him down, but he was at least handed his coat, which he clutched closely to his chest, lute held in his other hand. Without words, he followed the first oaf, the second trailing behind them.

The castle smelled as he remembered. It smelled of polished wood, daisy flowers and ash. The smell rested heavily on his tongue, and he hated it even more. The memories that surfaced weren't nice. Stung cheeks, tears flowing over fresh cuts, his tongue tasting like iron.

He ignored it. If the rumours had been true, his mother and father were long gone. He wondered who had taken over. Nothing seemed to have changed. Every painting, curtain and statue was there. It didn't seem to matter to change anything for the new ruler. Not that it really mattered. These halls were soaked in pain and blood, echoing screams of the anguish of a child who didn't know any better.

He couldn't smell Geralt anywhere. Even if his clothes were tinted by the Witcher's own smell, it was barely there. His throat closed, threatening to suffocate him with panic before he raised his jacket to his face, taking a deep, calming breath. The smell of rosemary, bark and dirt was there. It calmed the sense of impending doom, pushed the panic aside and let himself get distracted.  
Petting Roach with hay, quietly strumming his lute under open stars, hopping onto tables, belting out songs for whoever was there, the smell of dirt and rosemary etched into his being. It was comforting. It distracted him from the fact they were only a few steps away from the throne room.

The double doors opened with a creak, and his heart stopped. His eyes, which were a honey brown with small, iridescent specks of gold, sparked a light blue for a single moment. He didn't like using his magic, but fear was one of the many things that brought it forwards. He hated it. He never asked to be born the assigned heir.

The throne room was dark, only illuminated by the sunlight streaming in through the windows, some stained, some not. They danced across the floor, playing with each other like it was a simple game of tag. The oafs pushed him to walk on his own now, pushing him towards the throne.

There sat a man. His hair white, although dirty and greyed with age, his face was yet free of any wrinkle. His expression was stern, his clothes yelling he was high rank, yet the fact he wasn't wearing any crown signalled otherwise. He was nothing but a step in after the assassination. As he should be.

"Julian." The man's voice was cold, asserted. Foolish.

"Jaskier." The bard corrected simply, looking up at the replacement, letting cool confidence seep over him. His parents were no more. He had no reason to fear this person.

The man just let out a tense sigh, leaning forward slightly. "Julian," he started again, a lot firmer this time. "My name is Frédéric Alanzo the Third. I am the new king. As you are the... Heir of the throne, you have been asked to come back."

'New King', 'asked', what stupid words and definitions of what truly happened. And what a stupid name, too.

"Well, if you're the new king, why do you need the heir?" he asked, voice cool and brash, dipping dangerously low. He was warning the man.  
The man's grip tightened on the arms of the throne, his knuckles turning white from the force. He slowly got up, movements slow. Deliberate. A sign he was confident. Or was faking it, that is.

"Julian, I understand you... Left on your own terms, but I do have some... Advice for you, son." The words were vile, hissing in his ear, spilling the same poison into his system. His brain saw the path and stepped onto it, only to throw itself back. He couldn't. Not again.

"You should probably keep your pretty fucking mouth shut, or you will be sorry for ever leaving the grounds of this kingdom. Do you understand me?" as the man talked, he walked towards Jaskier. The bard couldn't help but tense up, his mind hating the association.

Jaskier simply set his jaw, keeping eye contact with the man.

The slap was fast and hard, the ring on the man's finger cutting his cheek. "Do you understand me, Julian?"

Jaskier wiped at the wound, feeling himself turn dizzy, the floor underneath him becoming far too light, his head spinning. Dissociation pulled at his seams he so deliberately knitted together. He nodded.

"Good. Now, tell me, who were you travelling with?" the man's tone wasn't sugar-coated anymore. It was harsh. Horrible. Pushing Jaskier towards the answers he wanted.

The mention of his travel partner immediately made his mind pull itself out of dissociation. He fixed his posture, wiping the blood on his clothes. "Well, I honestly wouldn't suggest doing any of this. The person I was travelling with is... Rather dangerous. And he is my friend."

The threat was not empty, and the man felt that. It was heavy in the room as he looked at the bastard child that was the crown prince. "And who may that be?"

"Geralt of Rivia. The White Wolf. The Witcher." His words hung in the air, the man's posture stiffening as they sunk in.

The next slap was expected. The punch wasn't.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few hours earlier, everything was alright. Now Geralt was nearly pulling his hair out, having lost Jaskier in the crowd. He had thought the bard had already bedded a poor man's wife, but no. The man was gone. And no one saw anything.

Something had happened, he knew that well enough. Jaskier wouldn't have smelled of fear and panic, neither would he have dropped his notes of music. Geralt realized these hours later after all the scents cleared up and he found his bard's music sheets, trampled and dirty, on the festival floor. Something bad happened. And he wasn't there to protect Jaskier.

His fragile bard. Fuck.

This was horrible. Worse than horrible, honestly. This was Geralt's fault and his fault alone. He had started his search immediately after he noticed that the bard wasn't around after the festival had quietened down for the time being, which was two hours later. The feeling of nausea and the objective horror of his realization that his bard wasn't anywhere near him was... Strangely horrifying. 

He had looked around in all the open bars and pleasure houses, asking after a chatterbox bard with brown hair and brown eyes, and nothing came up. That was before he asked a flower vendor if they saw anything. 

"No, no one that fits your description.... Well, was he wearing a blue tunic?" They asked, which made Geralt nod. "Well, yes, I did actually! Although, it was from the corner of my eye. He was being accompanied by two taller men. They headed down that alleyway, probably going down the road that leads out of town, as they had a different kingdom on their arms."

The Witcher thanked the flower vendor before heading down the alleyway. Indeed, Jaskier was here. But with two other people. So the vendor didn't lie. Fuck. They were foreign. Smelled of spice, rot and fat. It didn't sit right with Geralt.  
"Fuck." He muttered. He knew well he won't be able to find the bard soon enough. If Jaskier was taken as hostage, he'll hopefully be sent a letter, wherever he may be. Though, the two men having a different coat of arms, from a different kingdom, didn't... Sit well. 

Why would the guards of another kingdom take Jaskier? No good reason, obviously, but it still didn't sit right. It felt horribly wrong. Far too wrong. 

Nether the less, he'll have to wait. If he wants to find Jaskier, he'll need to actually know what the coat of arms was. And if the vendor can help, then it'll be worth a try. 

It took another hour for Geralt to have figured out what the arms of coat was. A rose held between a dragons claws. The kingdom of magic, wizards and witches, sorcerers and elementals. The kingdom of Autumnfort. A beautiful kingdom, but why? Why Jaskier? Why not the feared Witcher instead? 

He'll have his questions answered soon enough. For now, he has to find Jaskier. And if he has any chance of that, he'll have to set off west almost immediately. He only hoped Roach will enjoy the long ride they will have.


End file.
